


Tell You Lies I Tell You Wicked Lies

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [9]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:22:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Sonny has no idea what Aiuppo wants, but sometimes knows just what Vinnie needs.  Or, at least he thinks he does.





	Tell You Lies I Tell You Wicked Lies

"May I get you a refill?"

Sonny looked up, checked out her breasts, read her nametag (Hillary) before looking into her eyes. "Yeah, sure." The ratio of stewardesses-to-passengers was one of Sonny’s favorite things about flying first class; he liked the extra attention.

Hillary took his glass, and Sonny watched her walk down the aisle. Nice breasts, good ass, lots of blonde hair. Shouldn't take Vinnie more than five minutes to fall madly in love.

Hillary came back with Sonny’s drink. Instead of letting her set it on his tray, Sonny took it from her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as he reclaimed his glass. "Thanks."

He watched her speak to another passenger, then move down the aisle to talk to another stewardess, Devon. Hillary looked back at him, and Sonny smiled at her. She looked away, but not like she wanted him to stop looking at her, so he kept looking, and when Devon turned to look at him, Sonny smiled at her, too. She was about the same height as Hillary, but rounder, softer. Her hair was a sort of an indefinite brownish color, but her eyes were terrific—big and dark, like a night sky.

Aiuppo was back in Phoenix with his wife. When Sonny'd made his call from the hotel lobby, she'd answered the phone, but she hadn’t recognized his voice. Why should she? He was dead.

Aiuppo gave away nothing while his wife was listening. He tried to talk Sonny into giving him a number where he could call him back, but Sonny wouldn’t do it. "Do you really think I’m that dumb? We do this now, or we don’t do it at all. Tell Dona Aiuppo whatever you have to to get her out of the room." And Sonny waited while Aiuppo changed phones.

"Where are you?" Aiuppo asked, but Sonny didn’t bother with that.

"He’s fine. He’s—"

"Where. are. you?" Aiuppo was keeping his voice low, but his tone was pure ice.

"You think I'm gonna stay on this phone indefinitely? I know you're tracing the call. You wanna know how he is, or you wanna keep asking me the same question I’m not gonna answer?" Silence was Aiuppo's only response, so Sonny went on with what he'd been saying. "He’s putting on weight, he knows where he is— He’s happy." Maybe he wasn't exactly happy, but close enough.

"Why should I believe you?" Aiuppo asked. "You disappeared with him in the middle of the night—"

"What, was I supposed to sit around with my hands between my legs, waiting around for you to decide it was a good time to ice me?"

"That wasn’t the plan," Aiuppo said.

_Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? _ "Plans change," Sonny said coolly. "Sometimes without notice."

"You had no business taking my son out of my house!" Aiuppo's voice had dropped to an angry, intense hiss.

Sonny started to say that Aiuppo had been ready to give up on Vinnie, stick him someplace with soft walls. Instead he let the receiver fall to the end of its cord and took out the aspirin he'd bought at the hotel gift shop. "Your house?" he said to himself. "Say that to Vinnie, why don’t you? Your house. He’d probably throw you across the room. Your house, your son. Not anymore, if he ever was." Sonny looked around for a drinking fountain—there was probably one by the men's room, but the Coke machine was closer. He went over and dropped some quarters in.

"If you put something out for the trash, you don't get to pretend it means something to you," Sonny went on, knowing Aiuppo couldn’t hear him, and not caring. "Everybody knows that, old man. Just ask the cops." He washed down the aspirin with three long swallows of Coke, then he dropped the can in the trash and went back to the phone.

"—Frank McPike—"

Whatever Aiuppo was saying about McPike, Sonny didn't care about. "I thought you'd want to know how he is."

"Why are you calling?" Aiuppo asked, and then, "Why didn't you call sooner?

"I called to see if we could work something out—"

"There is nothing to work out!" Aiuppo was frustrated, and furious because there was nothing he could do, not even yell at Sonny.

"And to let you know he’s OK." Sonny had really hoped that would make a difference, that Aiuppo would be pleased that Sonny had been able to snap Vinnie back to reality, back to his old self, sort of.

"Why should I believe you?" Aiuppo asked again.

Sonny hung up. He felt terrible and he didn't know why, except that the aspirin had started to melt before he got them all the way down.

So Aiuppo hated his guts, so what? He couldn't find him, so what difference did it make? He wasn't Sonny's stepfather, he was Vinnie's—and even Vinnie didn't want to talk to him. "I fixed him for you," he said to the pay phone. "I thought that was what you wanted."

It was, but Sonny was supposed to have disappeared after he'd done that job, maybe into landfill, maybe just back where he'd come from. He wasn't supposed to disappear before he'd done his job, and he wasn't supposed to take Vinnie when he did it. He wasn't supposed to talk back, and he wasn't supposed to refuse to answer questions. "Yeah? Well, fuck you. I'm the one who fixed him for you, not his fed friends, the ones you've gotten so chummy with. You have **Frank McPike **over to your house, but me you're gonna ice because I couldn't perform a miracle at the snap of your fingers—" Sonny leaned against the little partition. He felt like shit. He wanted to pick up the phone and call Vinnie, tell him everything was all right. Well, maybe not all right; status quo. Everything was the same: Aiuppo wanted him dead, but he didn't know how to find him. But if Aiuppo had his fed friends tracing his call, they'd be able to trace the other calls made from this phone, wouldn't they? Sonny didn't know for sure, but it wasn't worth taking the chance.

He'd gone back to the airport still feeling lousy, but also disoriented. Sonny hadn't really given it much thought before—he hadn't had time to give it much thought—but there was something very wrong with this whole situation.

It was one thing for Aiuppo to be pissed off because of what he thought was going on between Sonny and Vinnie; as a father he had that right, even if he was only an unwanted stepfather. But this thing with Frank McPike left Sonny bewildered. Sonny knew McPike; he was one of the untouchables. You couldn't bribe him, and you couldn't scare him, so all you could do was avoid him. It made sense that he and Vinnie were tight; Vinnie was like that too, kind'a. And they were on the same side. But Aiuppo?

Something was wrong. Somehow, while Sonny had been living on the wrong coast, the lines had gotten blurred, or maybe it was that somebody had changed sides, but for the life of him, Sonny couldn't figure out which. Aiuppo had been planning to have McPike kill him, if he didn't obligingly disappear. Did that mean McPike had stopped being one of the untouchables? Or did it mean Aiuppo and the feds had become allies? 

Sonny didn't know, but he had the feeling it was the latter.

There had been a time when Sonny's goal in life was to emulate Rafael Aiuppo, and now it— It was ridiculous, but he felt betrayed by him. _I fixed Vinnie—he's not happy, but he's not trying to kill himself, he knows who and where he is, he can be left by himself. I did what Aiuppo wanted, but instead of being grateful, he still wants me dead—and he doesn't even want to do it himself! He wants to send the feds after me! How the hell did this happen?_

Sonny went to the Swiss Lounge and called Vinnie, who was asleep in the middle of the day. Sonny got the idea that if he went away for a week, or a month, he'd come home and find Vinnie had been asleep the whole time.

"What happened?" Vinnie asked.

"Nothing." Sonny thought about it, but it was still nothing. "Nothing happened." _ Your stepfather would rather the feds have you than me._

"What were you thinking was going to happen?" Vinnie asked. He sounded very curious, and sort of amused. Sometimes he could be damned annoying, asking questions Sonny didn't have any answers to.

Sonny thought about it, though. "I dunno. I thought he'd want to know you're better."

"Didn't he?" Vinnie didn't seem to care.

"I don't think he even believed me."_ He'd believe **McPike**, though. Of course he would, because cops never lie, right?_

"He will, later, when he thinks about it. Was that all that happened?"

Sonny thought about it, but he didn't say anything.

"When're you going to be home?" Vinnie asked.

Sonny checked his ticket. "Plane gets in at eight thirty-four."

"You want me to come pick you up?"

"Nah, I'll grab a—" Sonny stopped, thinking.

"Cab?" Vinnie finished. "I know you're not gonna take a bus—"

"Changed my mind. Come on out, meet me in the bar."

Vinnie was confused; Sonny could hear it in his silence. Then he seemed to let it go. "Meet you at the bar? How will I know you? Will you be wearing a red rose?" His voice was full of laughter.

Sonny ignored his silly questions. "And straighten the place up before you leave."

"Straighten the—what?"

"I'm bringing you a surprise."

"A surprise I gotta clean the house for? What're you bringing, my mother?"

Sonny laughed. "Just do it. And shave, will you?"

"And shave," Vinnie repeated. "You know, I didn't throw a wild party in the—what is it, six hours you been gone—"

"No, you never got outta bed at all."

Vinnie ignored that. "How much straightening up you think the place needs?"

"Then just shave, straighten yourself up," Sonny said agreeably, and hung up. It was really stupid, but he sort of missed him.

Sonny almost didn't bother, but when Hillary came to ask if he wanted one last drink before they prepared for landing, he started making his pitch in earnest. He told her he had a friend back home who'd love to meet her—if maybe she had a friend he'd like to meet . . . ? She was interested—very interested—and he saw Devon laugh when Hillary went over to talk to her. That was the downside to first class: picking up stewardesses was like shooting fish in a barrel. If there'd been some challenge, it might've been fun, but this way was about as exciting as buying a magazine; they knew you had dough, so of course they said yes.

Sonny was tired, and the aspirin hadn't helped his headache, and he really wasn't in the mood to sweet talk a couple of stewardesses. But he was doing this for Vinnie, who needed something. Maybe it was this, and maybe it wasn't, but it was something Sonny could get for him easy, anyway. It was a place to start.

The plane landed early, and Vinnie wasn't there yet, so while he was waiting around in the bar for Devon and Hillary, Sonny called Tracy. He thought her overprotective act was cute, but he always took it very seriously. Who could tell, maybe it** was **serious. If he didn't call, would she declare war on Aiuppo? Sonny had the idea that since Vinnie's abduction, Aiuppo was kind of a pet of the feds, so anything Tracy did would have to be on her own, and while she was her father's daughter, and Aiuppo was well past his prime, Sonny still didn't see her taking on Rafael Aiuppo and walking away. Of course, she could probably get close enough to shoot him, if she really wanted to, but Sonny couldn't decide if she really would shoot him or not. Tracy **was** her father's daughter, so you just didn't know.

For the moment it didn't matter. He told her he was fine, and that Vinnie was fine, though she didn't ask.

She was trying to get Sonny to tell her where he was—everybody wanted to put a bell around his neck—when he saw Vinnie come into the bar. Sonny told Tracy he loved her and hung up.

"Well, it's smaller than a breadbox," Vinnie said. "How was the flight?"

"It was OK. What's smaller than a breadbox?" Sonny asked.

"Whatever your surprise is. If you can fit it in your pocket, it must be smaller than a breadbox, right?"

"I don't have it on me." Sonny looked Vinnie over. He'd shaved, his clothes were clean—he was even out of the sweats and in a pair of black cords and the blue cashmere shirt Sonny's bought him for his birthday. Hillary wasn't going to be a bit disappointed.

"So, what’s the—"

Sonny nudged him, nodding at the entrance where Hillary and Devon were just coming in. "Bigger than a breadbox," Sonny said. "Surprise."

Vinnie took a deep breath, let it out in a sort of laugh. "Yeah, surprise. Please tell me they speak English."

"Of course they speak English, whaddaya think?"

"You never know." He laughed again. Sonny had no idea what he was talking about, but laughing was good.

Sonny waved to the girls, who came over, smiling. Sonny performed the introductions, remembering to use Vinnie’s fake name. Hillary seemed more than pleased to meet him.

Vinnie was sprawled across the bed, the sheet tangled around him in a way Sonny couldn't quite figure out. He was going to have to get himself untangled. Sonny had been sitting, looking at him while he slept, but it was after four in the morning and he really needed to get some sleep himself. He pushed Vinnie over—no easy task—far enough to have space to lie down. Vinnie was on top of the blanket, but the bedspread was in a heap on the floor. Sonny threw it across the bed, then he turned out the light, and got in.

"Cotton candy?" Vinnie asked Sonny. "Are you kidding me?"

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was. Girls gone?"

"Yeah, early flight. I called 'em a cab."

"Cotton candy?" Vinnie asked again

Sonny wanted to touch him. It was hard not to. "Go back to sleep."

"Huh-uh, not until you explain about the cotton candy."

Sonny turned over, away from him. "You know what cotton candy is. If you shut up now, I’ll see if I can get you some in the morning."

Vinnie was laughing into his pillow. "It **is** morning. And what I wanna know is, do you really go around telling women you make your living making cotton candy, or were you just stupid drunk tonight? Last night."

Sonny wanted to put an end to this stupid conversation, but he'd never found an effective way to get Vinnie to shut up when he didn't want to. Well, except for punching him, and Sonny wanted to go to sleep. "What’s wrong with telling a girl I make cotton candy for a living? It’s not against the law."

"What’s wrong with it? You mean besides it's ridiculous?"

"What'm I supposed to tell 'em." Sonny asked. Vinnie had very soft hair. Not that that mattered or anything.

"I dunno, tell 'em you're a lawyer—"

"Why would I want anybody to think I'm a lawyer?" Sonny asked.

"All right! Tell 'em you own a nightclub, or you work in a bank—hell, tell 'em you own a bank, whatever."

"Why wouldn't they believe I own a bank?" Sonny asked, feeling strangely insulted by this. He turned over, so he was facing Vinnie's back. "I could own a bank."

"That's exactly my point! You could own a bank. It would be believable." After a minute, he added, "Not that I'd trust you with **my** money."

And for some reason, Sonny didn't feel insulted by that at all. In fact, he thought it was funny. "You're missing the point," he said, and then he started laughing. "Why wouldn't you trust me with your money?" he asked with great innocence, and then Vinnie started laughing.

"What point am I missing? You tell 'em you make cotton candy and they didn’t believe you for a minute."

"Make and distribute," Sonny corrected him. Vinnie laughed some more. There was nothing wrong with touching Vinnie's hair, so he did, stroked it, just for a minute. "And of course they didn’t believe me! They weren't complete idiots." Maybe Sonny could push him on the floor and then he'd shut up. Probably not.

Vinnie yawned. Or maybe he’d go back to sleep soon. "I don’t get it. What’s the point of lying to somebody who knows you’re lying to them?"

Sonny yawned. It was exactly the sort of thing a professional liar wouldn’t understand, but Sonny wasn't looking to start a fight. "Look. I can’t very well tell any of 'em the truth, right?"

"Of course right." Vinnie answered like it was the stupidest question in the world. "Wait. Any of them? How many women we talkin' about here?"

"Didn't know I was supposed to be keeping track."

"Nearest round number will do."

"Yeah, I'll get out my calculator in the morning, get back to you in a couple days."

"OK, so there's this whole sorority of women you been telling this stupid story to."

"It's not always cotton candy," Sonny said. "Sometimes it's maraschino cherries. Sometimes it's—"

"I know, I know, sometimes it's those little silver things your sprinkle on top of cupcakes—oh, wait, not just the little silver ones, you make the gold ones, too."

Now Sonny was laughing. "Diversification's important," he agreed, though he'd never told anybody he manufactured—what were they called? Nonpareils?

"Yeah, right. Anyway, unhealthy, ridiculous food products, the particulars aren't important, it's just—why this unbelievable stuff?"

Sonny had hoped that Vinnie had derailed himself. He should have known better; Vinnie had no trouble finding his way back from a detour. "Well, I gotta tell 'em something. I can’t just tell 'em to mind their own business."

"No," Vinnie agreed, yawning again. Sonny wished he'd quit it, he was making him yawn. "'Mind your own business' makes a lousy pick-up line."

"Exactly," Sonny said. Maybe now Vinnie would shut up. Sonny reached over, his hand hovering over Vinnie's shoulder, nearly touching him. Then he withdrew it, tucking his arm under his pillow.

"OK, so you can't just tell 'em to mind their own business. But why tell a woman a lie she knows is a lie? Why not tell her something believable?"

There was nothing more frustrating than having his smart Vinnie go stupid on him. "What's the point of that?"

"She'd believe you!" Vinnie said, sounding exasperated. Sonny stroked his hair again, just for a second.

Stupid. How did somebody so smart get like that? "Yeah, and then what? I tell her I own a bank, then what happens?"

"She asks you about it," Vinnie said. "I dunno why, but they always do."

"It's part of the game," Sonny said.

"Yeah, so she asks you about this bank—"

"Uh-huh, and then I gotta talk about being a banker all night. Does that sound interesting to you? You want to listen to me talk about an imaginary bank?"

"No," Vinnie murmured, but he was laughing again. "Not really."

"That's what I thought. You think those girls would'a been more interested?"

"No, but—"

"When I lie and they know I'm lying, they get the message: I don't want to talk about it. And that way I can say pretty much whatever I feel like."

"You mean like, 'There's a lot of money in spun sugar'?" Vinnie laughed, which was what he'd done when Sonny'd said that to Devon.

"Yeah, exactly. Look, did you have a good time tonight?" Sonny asked. His hand reached out again to touch Vinnie, to stroke his hair some more, but he'd done that enough. He put his arm back under his pillow.

"Yeah, sure I had a good time—"

"I mean, besides getting laid, did you have a good time at dinner?"

"Yeah, I had a good time."

"Would you have had a better time if you'd told 'em you owned a garage and then spent half the night talking about carburetors?" Sonny asked, and before Vinnie could answer, "I can tell you, I wouldn't'a had a better time, listening to you talk about carburetors all night."

"Yeah, yeah, very funny." Sonny had told them that Vinnie was the company's vice president in charge of food coloring, and Vinnie had been too surprised to contradict him. "No, that wouldn't have made the evening more fun," Vinnie admitted.

"Yeah. Exactly," Sonny said, his point proved.

"'Yeah. Exactly' what? What's that got to do with—"

Sonny was out of patience. "It's a game! How can you not know that? It's a game, and this's how it's played, unless you like pros better. With pros, you don't have to do anything, they're just there for the green, you say mind your own business, they change the subject." Entirely against his will, Sonny's hand went back to Vinnie's hair. Apparently he hadn't stroked it enough. Vinnie didn't seem to mind.

"I know how the game is played," Vinnie said, and maybe he sounded a little sleepy. "You never heard the phrase, 'I don't wanna talk about my job'? I used to say it all the time when I was working for you."

That was a shot, but Sonny didn't care. "So, what, you're just being a pain in the ass for the hell of it?" Sonny stroked his hair some more. It really was very soft.

"Yeah, pretty much." Definitely sleepy. "Vice president in charge of food coloring. So, I got my own office?"

"Hey," Sonny said expansively, "You work hard. You deserve it." He thought about asking Vinnie why he'd thought the girls wouldn't speak English, but decided it could wait 'til morning.


End file.
